1992
by NoWindForThisHole
Summary: Winston makes it known


Winston woke up in his shitty bed at Loss Mansion bright and early at 2 A.M. He got out of bed, tearing his varicose tumors, and poured himself a bowl of Gin and Cheerios.

The fitness instructor on the telescreen looked even more fed up with this shit. "All right, Conrad, I want you to take your FOOT and shove it straight up your-" the telescreen promptly cut to a zoomed-in, low-res picture of Big Brother's mustache.

Winston was too broken to care. After getting shot in the head, he just wasn't feeling too great. Winston tumbled down the stairs, taking Ms. Parsons with him. Her fuckin kids just pointed and laughed. Ms. Parsons applauded them for their loyalty to the Party.

Winston felt the overweight female's boob on his leg tumor. He reminisced on the dark-haired skank he used to put his weiner in. He thought her name was "Jessica." His mouth would have watered if all his water wasn't expended as tears. He wanted breakfast again.

He limped out into the bustling streets. There were only two cars, but that was enough. There was panic. "Big Brother's here!" everyone said.

Wilson peered over the bouncing heads of erratic populace to view the vehicles. A 4-foot-3 and 400-pound woman opened the door, and a 4-foot-3 and 600-pound man got out of the door. "Big Brother!" most of the people said. Everybody fell to their knees and made a rapid gargling noise.

Big Brother stepped forward with a smile and wave, but the other car did not slow down. The big mustachioed man was run over in what could only be called the Two-Second Revolution. People politely knocked on the other car.

Goldstein slowly rolled down the window. It was Goldstein. Goldstein, but he was wearing… a fake mustache?

"That's no Goldstein," a man shouted from the audience, "It's Big Brother again." Everyone cheered, chanting "Big Brother," enunciating it less and less each time to the point where it sounded like a continuous short "i" sound.

Winston shrugged. "The things you see these days." He continued on the road to his newly-appointed "job" at the Ministry of Sewage Distribution.

"What do we even do here?" he said to the vacant lobby. Everyone was hiding from Winston.

As a serious move of justice, a middle-aged woman on the sidelines hurled a fresh decomposing rat carcass at the lean buttcheeks of Winston Smith. He sat down, and noticed something amiss. "What is this… bony feeling in my asshole?" he said. "Is Julia giving me another prostate exam?" Man, he sure popped a boner on that one.

His boner fully inverted when he saw what was _really_ there. "Oh bother!" he shouted, snapping his fingers in disgust. He shat liters and liters of liquid feces. Everyone emerged. Finally, they had something to do.

As the workers piled on the pile of poop, Winston tried to look for some Victory Toilet Paper, but there was none on campus. He scampered out of the scene, legs spread wide, much wider than the wealth of the country. If he couldn't wipe, he could at least air it out, he thought.

Winston went to the second floor to get some Victory Lunch. It was now 4 AM. The lunch lady was in the hallway. "We're out of food!" she said in a thick Eurasian accent. "All we have in Victory Gin and grease."

Winston decided to fuel his alcoholism. "I'll take a Gin," he said.

The lunch lady gave Winston a thimble, an empty thimble. "Drink up, you piece of shit," she said, throwing a tantrum.

"But there's nothing in here," Winston said. "I'm calling the Thought Police."

Winston whipped out his Samsung Galaxy Note 3, swiped the screen to unlock it, hit the phone icon, and dialed "1-800-999-BIG-BRO-THE-R," Winston said aloud to make sure he got it right. He got it wrong.

After 15 minutes of waggling his middle finger at the mildly-irritated lunch lady, the recipients of the phone call finally picked up the damn phone.

"What?!" O'Brien said.

"I wish to file a complaint," said Winston.

"You've called the right number!" Julia joked, also on the other end.

"Julia, shut the fuck up and get back to pulling these anal beads out of my dirty ass with your mouth. I want you to literally taste my shit," O'Brien screamed.

"Is this what normally happens in Room 101?" Julia asked.

O'Brien did not answer and hung up the phone.

Winston triumphantly threw the phone on the ground, cracking the LCD. "You're in for it now, bitch," he said. He took all her Gin and ran.

Outside, there was a loud crash. There had been another accident. The ragdoll corpse of Goldstein hurtled down the crowded street. There was a new king now.

From on top of his Mazda 2, George Orwell reigned triumphant yet again, flashing women and children alike.

Winston was in awe. O mighty breast! Forty short minutes it had taken him to realize. Gin flowed down his pant leg. But it was fuckin fine. Everything was fuckin fine. He loved George Orwell?


End file.
